"You are my son--why aren't you clever? It's laziness, sir; sheer
laziness!"

"I'll try and do better at Oxford, sir--honour bright I will!"

"You had better," advised him his father; "because I warn you, your
whole future depends upon it. You know me. You've got to be a
credit to me, to be worthy of the name of Grindley--or the name, my
boy, is all you'll have."

Old Grindley meant it, and his son knew that he meant it. The old
Puritan principles and instincts were strong in the old gentleman--
formed, perhaps, the better part of him. Idleness was an
abomination to him; devotion to pleasure, other than the pleasure
of money-making, a grievous sin in his eyes. Grindley junior fully
intended to do well at Oxford, and might have succeeded. In
accusing himself of lack of cleverness, he did himself an
injustice. He had brains, he had energy, he had character. Our
virtues can be our stumbling-blocks as well as our vices. Young
Grindley had one admirable virtue that needs, above all others,
careful controlling: he was amiability itself. Before the charm
and sweetness of it, Oxford snobbishness went down. The Sauce,
against the earnest counsel of its own advertisement, was
forgotten; the pickles passed by. To escape the natural result of
his popularity would have needed a stronger will than young
Grindley possessed. For a time the true state of affairs was
hidden from the eye of Grindley senior. To "slack" it this term,
with the full determination of "swotting" it the next, is always
easy; the difficulty beginning only with the new term. Possibly